Toy Man

On the square in Helen, next to the Christmas ornament store, a little building made like the original. Scalloped plastic gilded on the drywall slats. Heaps of graying wood, once black and ripe, rot in the sun. Some look like soldiers, some are untouched. Inside, hunched and haggard, he whittles with a dull knife too small for his leathery, work-worn hands. The wood is smooth, well-finished, unplanned, like all the other scraps on his shelves. Behind the counter, shavings fall, bits of resolve curl in themselves. Crusty Lindt chocolate sits in boxes on the counter, not on display, for sale, to make the place seem real. Mice squeak in the corners where plush dolls, stuffed with feathers and dirt, stitched tightly, stare with button black eyes, gruesome smiles fixed in that position long to change. He cared for them once, not anymore. He cared about the smell of pine and rosewood, relished in the different rings and grooves. Even splinters dare not burden gentle hands. The wood splinters in his thumb, colors fade. His wood has eyes, a mouth, nose. A soldier of the royal guard left in a heap next to the others. Another piece of wood, begin again.